


We Only Said Goodbye With Words

by nox_candida



Series: Getting Better Ficlets and AUs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU to an AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, Major Character "Death", Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Reaction, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You never wanted me to make you out to be a better man than you were. You remember?” Laughing hurts, choked up and weak. “Stupid question. You put it in our bloody vows, of course you remember.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Only Said Goodbye With Words

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I think really hard about the Getting Better universe and Reichenbach, and then listen to Back in Black on repeat. So, this is essentially an AU to the main storyline, though it references some stuff from Getting Better and some stories that may come later. But it's completely AU. This is not how the series is going to end. Perhaps. ;) Many, many thanks to prettyarbitrary, who looked this over for me. Really appreciate it. :D

_Just do as I ask. **Please**._

*

He gasps into the dark, heart pounding, hot and cold shivers running up and down his spine, the back of his neck, goosebumps rising on his arms.

His fingers are twisted into the duvet, and there’s an empty space next to him. Not just in bed (though there’s that, too), but in the world. A horrible black, empty thing, leeching the colours away, the warmth, a hole in the dyke that threatens to collapse the whole thing, to drown everything downriver in a terrifying rush.

And John’s only one man, of course. How can one man hold back the waters on his own?

*

He presses his face against the glass, his cheek stinging from the cold, widens his eyes and ignores the relentless pinging of the rain right next to his ear. His breath is hot, fogs the window, and he’s tempted to raise his hand, draw shapes and people, to remake the world the way it should be. He doesn’t though; he knows they’d disappear the moment he turned away.

The thing that he’ll always remember—years later, even—is how time slowed down when his uncle’s car pulled up, how he noticed it almost from the moment it pulled onto the street, wending its way towards them unerringly.

Emily had had her back turned, was laughing at something—he doesn’t remember anymore what, even though it’s only been three days and six hours—and he’d known, when he saw that car.

That’s when time slowed down, fear and nausea a horrible seed planted and growing, blooming in his stomach.

*

She’s always hated dresses.

They remind her of the awful shopping trips her aunts used to take her on. They’d make her try on bright pink dresses that stopped at her knees—delicate and pretty and horrible. Clothes fit for a doll, rather than a person, and certainly not her. The sort of clothes that belong on something that never goes anywhere or does anything; that never moves, that stares and stays still, looking pretty. And eerie.

She’s always hated dolls, too.

The dark dress with white trim is something different, but she hates it, too. She hates the way it sags on the hanger, hates how the patent leather shoes that match shine in the weak light.

It’s all wrong and she’ll look _stupid_.

But there’s no one who will understand, because Uncle Mycroft chose it (no help there), Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara will sigh wearily at her and tell her to just put it on (don’t make a fuss, Em); her father will stare at her with his dull, sad eyes and not say anything at all (and won’t her chest just _burn_ at that, her cheeks prick in shame and embarrassment?). And Tris…

Tris will stare through her, his normally sharp eyes unfocused, soft and so far away (and that will hurt worst of all).

The only one who might have understood, who might have helped her destroy the thing can’t help her now.

She _hates_ it.

*

_In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._

*

John feels the stares at his back as he carefully leads Tristram and Emily to the waiting car, does his best not to react.

He’s wearing the only suit he has, but it feels shabby, not put together. The last time he wore this suit was a completely different experience, of course.

_Sherlock stands in front of him, his lips tilting up as he does up the knot._

_“All right?” John asks, smiling._

_“It’ll do,” Sherlock answers._

_“Thanks,” John says dryly. He’s smiling anyway and accepts the kiss Sherlock leans in to give him…_

John blinks and the sunlit memory is gone; in its place is Tris’ pale, drawn face—so like his father in this moment, held stiff and still, pale blue eyes unseeing (John feels a sharp stab in his chest)—and Emily, twisting and shifting in her new dress. Black is not a good colour on her; it washes out her skin, clashes with her eyes, and the white around the collar looks all wrong, like it’s tight and suffocating.

He doesn’t know what to say to them; hasn’t really known what to say since that day, since the day…

He knows what he wants to say—that they shouldn’t believe any of it (it’s not what _he_ wanted, but to hell with that; John refuses to tell them lies), that it hurts now but it’ll get better. That someday, the piercing pain, the sensation of something huge and necessary missing will diminish and fade, that someday…someday in the future…it won’t be so bad.

But on a day like today, with the stiff chilly wind, the slate grey clouds hovering in the sky, with the streets smelling like rain and oil and grease, with what they’re doing and where they’re going…

That’d be a lie, too. And he doesn’t expect that either of them would hear him anyway.

*

_He sees his new dad climbing out of Uncle Mycroft’s car so slowly, as though he were aching and in pain. He sees the horrible look on his face, a twisted grimace._

_It takes Tristram’s breath away._

_“Tris? What is it?” Emily asks, and then turns, her face lighting up for a moment before a frown overtakes it. “Dad?”_

_“Oh God,” Doctor Watson—Dad—says quietly. Chokes. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”_

*

Her dress itches and the leather of the seat is slippery under her legs. The stockings she’s wearing aren’t very thick and she folds her arms closer to her body as the car comes to a stop at the graveyard.

The driver comes around to open the door and she exits first, because it looks like neither Dad nor Tris are going to move, as if they don’t realise they’re here. She’s never been afraid of taking charge, so she climbs out determinedly.

Dad blinks after a moment, his eyes droopy and sad, and shuffles painfully out, holding himself stiffly and upright.

Tris stares into the middle distance, so she reaches in and puts a gentle hand on his arm. He doesn’t look at her, not really—his eyes turn towards her, but they look inward, blank—before he scoots towards them and climbs out. Her hand drops away.

It’s not raining anymore—thank goodness—and Dad leads them both towards their destination. One of his hands rests on her right shoulder, and one rests on Tris’ left. And even though they’re walking together, it feels wrong, like they’re skipping a step, or walking out of sync. It feels like she’s leading the way, and dad is limping along one step behind, and Tris is floating through the air, a million miles away.

She reaches out a hand again, takes his—unresisting—in hers; she doesn’t clutch or grab or grasp. She’s not trying to drag him back to earth.

She just doesn’t want him to drift away forever.

*

_It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick._

*

They stop at the polished headstone, the only ones there—thank God, because the feeling of being watched has stuck with him, the feeling that some paparazzi is lurking in the bushes, waiting to get that crowning shot of grief and put it in all the papers. A small piece of schadenfraude for the public, the capstone on their tragic little fairy tale.

He swallows hard and stares at the name. And what should he say, what _can_ he say in front of the kids? There is no way his words won’t wound, won’t sting and burn, possibly rip the tentative fabric of their little family.

He’s angry, he’s hurt. _How could you do this? How could you do this to me? To Emily? To your own son, Sherlock Holmes?_

_How could you?_

He clears his throat. “No matter what anyone says,” he begins, his voice quivering, “he was not a fake or a fraud. It wasn’t magic, because it made sense. It was only magical to anyone who didn’t bother to listen to him, to take the time to understand.”

He squeezes Emily’s shoulder and she looks up at him, her eyes firm and her jaw set. She nods determinedly.

And then he squeezes Tristram’s shoulder, and the boy jumps, as though in surprise.

John wishes, just this once, that magic did exist, if only so it could bring the man himself back.

*

_”I’m so sorry,” Dad chokes, falling to his knees and gathering him into strong arms that he’s still not used to, but that feel safe and warm. They make him feel loved, usually._

_Now, though, his heart is pounding in his thin chest and he can’t breathe._

_He doesn’t understand._

_“Dad,” Emily asks urgently, confused. “What—”_

_“Your father. Your father, Sherlock, he’s gone,” Dad stutters, shoulders heaving._

_“Gone?” Emily asks, still confused, but Tristram knows. God, he knows, and it’s like drowning, like choking. He’s overwhelmed, it’s too much, too much, he can’t, he can’t._

The same moment in time. Over and over and over.

*

Emily stares at the headstone and hates the blackness of it, hates how it merely says his name and nothing else. It doesn’t say anything about his experiments, about his violin, about how he mocked Uncle Mycroft.

It says nothing about how he yelled at her for tracking mud into the kitchen and contaminating his experiments. It doesn’t mention how he made her tea and played a pretty song when she had a nightmare about the warehouse and Tris tied to a chair and Aunt Claire.

There’s nothing there about how he helped her and Tris with schoolwork, how he helped them build a blue box with a cylinder in the middle that really went up and down.

There’s no picture of his smile; no recording of his chuckle. Nothing about how her dad loved him, how they got married, how brilliant he was.

It’s nothing like him at all—all plain and boring and dull.

He would absolutely _hate_ it.

*

_This phone call. It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note._

_Goodbye._

*

John sees Mrs Hudson coming and is grateful, actually. He sends her a look that she understands perfectly, and she presses gentle hands into Emily and Tris’ backs, leads them a little way away to give him a moment. He’ll do the same for both of them, if they want it.

But right now. God, he needs this moment alone.

He breathes in and out. Steps closer to the headstone, as if that will make all the difference.

“You never wanted me to make you out to be a better man than you were. You remember?” Laughing hurts, choked up and weak. “Stupid question. You put it in our bloody vows, of course you remember.”

He takes another deep breath.

“You were. A good man. The best…the wisest,” he says, his voice cracking. “No one can convince me of anything else.”

Another breath, a steadying hand on the headstone that burns with cold, with loss.

“Tris is proof of that. Emily is proof of that. You fixed us all. Made…” his breath catches in his throat, hands shaking. “Made us all better. Put us back together like one of your puzzles. Made the pieces fit.”

He gasps, trying to catch his breath, wanting to stay stoic—he can feel the eyes, knows he’s being watched. “Solve this last puzzle, please,” he pleads, quietly. Under what little breath he has left.

“This one last puzzle, Sherlock. Put us all back together. Make us whole.”

“Please,” he whispers, voice finally cracking, breaking under the strain. “Be alive. Let this be one last piece of genius.”

He squares his shoulder and turns away because if he stays there for one moment longer, he’ll break completely and he has what’s left of his family to stay strong for.

He’ll do his best to glue the pieces back together, since the real puzzlemaster isn’t there to tell him how they go.

*

_”I’m so sorry,” Dad chokes, falling to his knees and gathering him into strong arms that he’s still not used to, but that feel safe and warm. They make him feel loved, usually._

_Now, though, his heart is pounding in his thin chest and he can’t breathe._

_He doesn’t understand._

_“Dad,” Emily asks urgently, confused. “What—”_

_“Your father. Your father, Sherlock, he’s gone,” Dad stutters, shoulders heaving._

_“Gone?” Emily asks, still confused, but Tristram knows. God, he knows, and it’s like drowning, like choking. He’s overwhelmed, it’s too much, too much, he can’t, he can’t—_

And again.

_He watches Uncle Mycroft’s car swing towards him and Emily, watches his new dad climb out, collapse in front of him._

_“Oh God,” Dad says brokenly. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”_

“Tris?” Dad asks quietly. He’s standing in front of him, hands on Tris’ shoulders, squeezing them slightly. Pulling him from the memories he’s lived in, been trapped in, since that moment.

He feels Emily’s hand in his—a little clammy and sweaty, but there—and takes a deep breath. It’s like coming up for air. “Yes?” he croaks, and then clears his throat.

“Do you want a moment?” dad asks him.

He doesn’t know what that means, what that accomplishes, but he nods (that’s the right thing to do, right? He’d ask Emily, but he’s not sure he can). He lets go of Emily’s hand, and it makes him think of his swimming lessons, of being on the highest diving board. No one below him to catch him, save the water.

“All right,” dad says quietly and releases his shoulders—the space opening up between them feels good (less like being strapped to a bomb) and bad (like falling towards the water, weightless and terrifying).

He sucks in a deep breath, pushes forward to the headstone as dad and Emily move off a little way.

Presses his hand against the name—the cold stings, clenches and settles in his chest.

He doesn’t know what to say. Normally his father would know what he wanted to say, would answer his question unasked.

It’s that which, ironically, calms him. His father may be somewhere—may not be—but if he is, he already knows the yawning abyss of loneliness, the aching pain that has been sucking at his chest and head. He already knows about the seed of fear that has lodged itself in his stomach growing, blooming, and his father—the man he’s known his entire life—would tell him that it’s not important. He would tell him that it was irrelevant and dull and that he should concentrate on other things.

“But it feels relevant.”

It’s not, obviously. Your dad is there to look after you. Emily is there for you to play with. You will be perfectly fine.

“I want you back, father.” I miss you. I love you. Please.

And I love you. You’re to mind your dad.

“Father…”

Tristram. You’re an intelligent boy. You’re _my_ son. You will be fine. You will flourish. I know you will. You’ve never been able to do anything else.

“Yes, father.”

He’s felt weighed down, his heart so heavy, beating so sluggishly, and it helps, a little, to imagine his father’s still there. Talking to him. Talking _at_ him, as he always did.

One last thing…

“Yes?”

They’ll need you as much as you need them.

“Yes, father.”

He turns away and walks back over to his family. The air feels a little warmer, a little easier to breathe. He has jumped in and broken the surface and moved his legs and arms. Keeping himself afloat.

*

Emily approaches the hateful headstone and frowns at it. “You’d hate this. I know you would. I tried to tell dad, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I wish you were still here, because you would have picked me out a proper dress, instead of this ugly one. Uncle Mycroft chose it, and it’s ugly. I know you’d think so.”

She takes a deep breath and moves closer. “I know you’d say it was idiotic, but I’m going to build a real TARDIS and go back in time to stop you from dying. That way, Tris and Dad won’t be so sad, and everything can get back to normal. Then, we can take the time machine and get that horrible man when he was still a baby and he’d never have done any of those nasty things in the first place.”

She frowns. “Of course, the Doctor might say that you can’t do that, but we still would, right? Remember that time when dad said I wasn’t to help you on the Gibson case, and you let me anyway? It’d be like that. You could drive the TARDIS and I’ll be your assistant.”

Emily ponders this for a moment. “Tris has to come, too, because he wouldn’t want to be left out of an adventure.

“And dad, of course,” she adds after a moment. She leans in closer and stares fiercely at the headstone. “And then when that’s done, we’ll go be pirates for a bit. Yes, that’s what we’ll do, because Uncle Mycroft told me you love pirates, so that’s the thing we’ll do when you’re safe. And it’ll end like a fairy tale--all happily ever after. That’s what happens in films, so dad and Tris and you and me deserve that. All right?”

Emily stares for a moment longer and then nods—as if they’ve come to an agreement—before she turns and marches back over to her dad and Tris. She doesn’t stop until she’s reached them, until she’s pulled Tris into a hug and stared at her dad until he bends down stiffly and joins in. It’s only then that she closes her eyes and breathes in again. Breathes out.

*

He watches from the safety of the treeline, watches his family leave his grave and walk back towards the car.

John, looking grey, a slight limp as he walks, holding himself upright and stiff.

Emily—jaw out and proud, shoulders back like her dad—marches forward.

Tristram, his son, smaller than he’s looked since he was a toddler, pale and trailing behind the other two.

It’s a strange sensation, a voyeur to his own family (now safe, thank God, the only thing that makes this worth it), to their actions, their movements, their emotions. It hurts to be removed from them, separated for who knows how long (even he doesn’t know, and he’s a genius) and to see them suffering because of him.

And they are; he knows it’s true. It was the only way (he whispers it to himself in the night; will do, night after night. _The only way._ ).

He never would have imagined himself in this position—sacrificing himself for others—but he has to admit that John, not always the most observant man, saw this quality in him before he did.

But they’re safe. That’s what he focuses on, what he thinks about, and it will have to be enough. That all-important fact will have to carry him through whatever will come, because he can’t risk them. They may suffer, they may hate him.

But they will live, and they will thrive. Even if it’s without him. It’s the only thing he’d wanted.

_”Please take care of them, John. Please keep them safe.”_

_“Sherlock….what…”_

_“Just do as I ask. Please. This one thing, that’s all I ask. Please, John.”_

He turns away, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

_Goodbye._


End file.
